Page 31 of Homeward for a Spell

Though Viktas’s scowl never so much as twitches, a wiry young man with a thatch of straw-colored hair and the hints of a beard leans forward, whispering eagerly into her ear. It’s all Sage can do to keep her own face solemn. Like all casters, true bards are increasingly rare in Harrow, and if any have traveled through Hexham in years, Sage will kiss Araphi’s boots. The promise of a performance might not purchase them supplies, but it might win them entry. After that, the villagers may be amenable to negotiating for the rest.

At last, Viktas lowers her ax and peels her still-burning, flint-gray eyes from Remy to meet her gaze. She seems unswayed, but the patrolman behind her practically vibrates with excitement, now spreading among the rest of the welcome party. At last, she proclaims, “No tavern either. But there’s a lodge. You play there, you can bunk down with your mount in the stable tonight. Your weapons, though, you’ll give to Tusk here.” She jerks a thumb toward a man with snow-white hair who’d look right at home in the fighting pits, regardless of his age. “For safekeeping, see? Wouldn’t want any sticky-fingered children making off with them in the night and harming themselves.”

Sage can sense her party tensing to protest behind her, but she says, “Of course, sir’ram.”

“None of that. Viktas will do. And you!” She points her ax blade again at the path behind Sage. “If I catch hide or hair of you outside the stable, I swear I’ll chop it off. And my word is good.”

Sage nods on Remy’s behalf. “Thank you, Viktas, for your hospitality.” Then she unbuckles her quiver from her back with steady fingers. When Tusk walks forward, she drops it into his waiting arms, along with her bow and remaining dagger, and gestures for her party to do the same. The request-that-wasn’t-a-request is reasonable, and without supplies there’s little point in pressing onward to the Northlands. Everything they need is in Hexham, so Hexham is where they need to be.

Once they’re sufficiently disarmed, the delegation turns to lead them away from the river and farther into the woods. Another mile or so of picking their way through dense brush, then the trees open into a path, and then onto a village carved right out of the wild. A motley assortment of structures stands among the waist-high roots. Some are more permanent, made from rough logs notched and stacked atop one another, the cracks stuffed with moss and clay. Many are merely wagons around which the forest seems to have sprouted. Ivy spools cross their thick wooden wheels, half-sunk in the loam, and their waxed wool roofs are further protected by lean-tos made from cut branches. The people of Hexham are adorned just as practically in their rough, warm clothing. With the golden sun slipping down beneath the canopy, they stop in the middle of their twilight routines to stare. They’re like a hive of bees stunned by smoke.

“Hexham is an old society, and was nomadic once,” Remy joins her to explain in a low voice, “straying with the seasons and wildfires and drought and the tides of battle when the kingdom’s been less…unified than it is now. Before Briarwall was established, when beasts and wild sorcerers used to drift down freely from the Northlands. Or when we were at war with Perpignan along the southern coast. Don’t suppose you remember the Battle of the Broken Pacts?”

“I was two,” she says dryly. “But if they aren’t nomadic any longer, why do they still live in wagons?”

“More like sleep in them. All of the buildings are communal.” He nods toward what seems to be the largest structure, built right on the wagon-rutted path. “That’ll be the lodge. And down that way, a kitchen and so on, I expect. But it still wouldn’t take them more than a day to uproot themselves and rebuild everything else someplace new.”

Sage understands the desire well enough.

Viktas shows them to the stables—one of the few permanent structures, consisting of two dozen standing stalls in two rows, nearly filled with sturdy draft horses and, promisingly, lighter horses for riding. “If you’re hungry, ought to be someone in the kitchens with a pot boiling. Toss something in if you’ve got anything, and they’ll give you a bowl in return. Well’s in the center of the village, and up and over a hill at the far end, a bathhouse and hot spring, but it’s not a welcoming hike in the dark. Make your way to the lodge once you’re fit to play. Then we’ll talk about supplies and mounts,” she instructs. Then she leaves them to it with a last wary glance.

Sage ties Reaper in and removes the tack, saddle, and bridle, running her palms along his back and down his legs to check for sores or swelling. Once done, she offers him water from the bucket on hand and leaves him to dip his muzzle into the feeding alley. She glances across the divider into the stall next door—one of the few empty ones—where Araphi is setting her pack and bedroll down in the hay alongside Nura and Tea.

“The body heat will be nice at least,” Araphi offers.

“I—Hmm?” says Sage.

“You’ve got a horse to snuggle up with. That’s good luck.”

“Oh. Yes.”

Now that she’s paying attention, Sage sees the tremor in Araphi’s fingers and the distance in her gaze, despite the lightness of her words. “Everything all right?”

“I’m a bit anxious,” Araphi confesses. “Not about performing. I can do that. But if I can’t charm the village into bartering fairly with us, then we’re really in the soup, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. This is what bards do, and I wouldn’t have hired you if I thought you weren’t able. You know you’re…good.” Sage chokes back everything she shouldn’t say. That Araphi is talented. That Araphi is dazzling. That even with straw and leaf litter caught in her loose, dark braids, and her lavender riding dress now mud-stained at the hem, she’s brighter than the lantern light that pools in her liquid brown eyes. Instead, she hurries to say, “And if it helps, these folks likely won’t have seen a bard or any scrap of magic that wasn’t purely defensive for some time. That’s how it goes in places like Hexham. It isn’t like Ashaway, where magic is just a commodity for making life easier and more entertaining for the wealthy. It’s a resource, and a very precious one. All you’ve got to do is…well, what you do.”

“Yes, all right.” Araphi nods, looking slightly reassured.

That makes one of them. Because Araphi isn’t wrong; tonight reflects upon her ability to do the job she was hired for.

But it also reflects upon the party leader who hired an untested bard in the first place.

12

Araphi

Araphi hasn’t been this nervous to play in ages.

Well, that’s not entirely true. She was nervous when she played for Sage the first time, and when she played for the winner’s purse in Ashaway, but these nerves feel different. They’re more electric, and also heavier somehow.

That’s because people are actually counting on you this time.

It’s true. Here, in the lodge in Hexham, her ability to perform is providing beds for her adventure party. Or perhaps not exactly beds, but warm, dry stalls to bunk in for the night, and the promise of supplies for their journey north.

So much depends on her getting it right. But it’s not just the weight of the party relying on her charm, or her wounded forearm and aching feet that turn Araphi’s stomach as she sits in a small storeroom at the back of the lodge, tuning her lute. Something else slithers under her skin that almost—almost—feels like being trotted out into the Clauneck ballroom. Like she’s merely an object to smooth the way for other people’s ambitions.

“You want this too,” she reminds herself in a low whisper. “This is your party and you’re a valuable member of the team, not just an ornament.”